Title: Signs
Author: sarcasticsra
Summary: Sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste.
Pairing: n/a
Claim: Conrad Ecklie
Fandom: CSI: Vegas
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Yes. They’re all mine. Oh, and the devil just opened an ice-skating rink in hell.
Author's Notes: Thanks for the beta, Kelly.

He sees the warning signs first.

He sees the empty beer bottles, the cans strewn about—and his father sitting up on the couch, his eyes bloodshot and wild-looking. He tries to get to his room without catching his father’s attention, but he never does. He never makes it without being seen.

He’s usually halfway to his room when he sees the shadow. He always turns around to face his father—a large man, always has been. He’s drunk, of course—he can tell just by looking. The man’s mind may be clouded, but his glare is clear.

He can see the hatred.

***

He hears the warning signs.

His dad is yelling at him now, calling him useless, worthless, a mistake—all the things he calls him that Conrad pretends he doesn’t believe.

He hears the footsteps of his mother, then her soothing voice trying to calm his father down; she always tries and it never works. He sighs when he hears her retreating footsteps.

Curse, curse, epithet, curse, curse, epithet—it’s almost a pattern. A sickening, never-ending pattern. His father’s yells never seem to quiet—they just replay over and over again in his mind, getting louder each time around.

He can hear the anger. ***

When he can smell the warning signs, he knows he’s in for it.

His father’s beer-scented breath is almost overpowering when he gets so close to his face; he struggles to breathe amidst the fumes.

There’s whiskey, gin, and just plain, old-fashioned beer in there, combining to make one of the most wretched odors Conrad has ever smelt. It’s terrifying in and of itself.

The really bad thing about smell is that his father’s rants and rages are almost over—the hitting is next. His father is purposely trying to frighten, to intimidate. It always works.

He can smell the malevolence.

***

By the time he can feel the warning signs, he’s nearly tuned out the world.

Powerful blow upon powerful blow rain down on his face. His father uses his fist occasionally, actually punches him sometimes. He’ll grab him by the shoulder, shake him, and Conrad’s mind just tries to get away from it. He imagines a place where it’s warm, he’s loved, he and his father are close, and this never happens. It’s a nice fantasy, a nice place to escape to, and sometimes he thinks he’s floating over himself, merely watching as this happens.

He still feels the pain.

***

He tastes the warning signs after everything has happened.

His blood tastes coppery in his mouth, and he makes his way to the bathroom to clean his face up, making sure his nose isn’t broken. He has to scrub hard to get all the blood off, and his face usually ends up flushed red from the pressure. Conrad inspects his shoulder—another bruise is starting to form.

He concocts a likely story on the way back to his room, something to tell someone should they ask why he looks like he does.

No one ever asks.

He can taste the indifference.

-End